


It's Already Impossible to Escape from Love, Love, Love

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 22:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: It’s the city of light, the city of romance, a city of anonymity, too, of indulgence and intimacy and Joonmyun hyung as wholly his (aka seho get it on in paris)





	

It’s the city of light, you know, Joonmyun had whispered into his shoulder that first night as they’d hobbled into their suite, both stopped to _gawk_ for several seconds at the view. The city of romance, too, he had continued, straining to press the words into the nape of Sehun’s neck, humming into his skin, romancing, dazzling him. 

The “I want you” had been implied at first, then branded into his bare, quivering skin, with teeth, with brusing fingers, with low, rasped moans. 

There was romance, then. Romance afterwards, too, when they’d climbed out of bed to explore. Romance to be found in the winding, cobbled streets, the scarred, ancient buildings and stooped doorways, romance in spite of the hazy kiss of pollution and old water and sweat and urine and cigarette smoke.

Romance for the secret way that Joonmyun smiles at him as he holds his hand, romance for the echoing white noise of disembodied voices in a language neither of them speak, romance for the way that Joonmyun’s mouth tastes first thing in the morning, last thing at night, for the way that his hyung’s body burns hot beneath his palms as he melts back into the hotel sheets. 

It’s the city of light, the city of romance, a city of anonymity, too, of indulgence and intimacy and Joonmyun hyung as wholly his. 

And Sehun is bold here—bolder, allowed to be. He lets his hands wander down Joonmyun’s tense sides, watches the way the lights halo Joonmyun’s body, the way his face pinches and lips part with pleasure at the fleeting graze of Sehun’s palms over his nipples.

And Sehun is dizzy on the flickering lights, the romance, the potency of Joonmyun’s kisses, the dark, hot promise of another night with him—night of them, just them. 

“Wanna fuck you,” he confesses into the column of Joonmyun’s throat. To make it clear—clearer, though they’re both naked, though they’re both hard. “Wanna, hyung. So bad, hyung.” Joonmyun surges upwards to mouth over the tendons of his neck, biting, and Sehun gasps and jerks in his hold. 

“Did you fuck any of the models at the show?” he asks, and he teases over Sehun’s cock before he’s really given a chance to respond, watching him through his dark, heavy eyelashes as he repeats the caress. Less teasing, more direct, hard. “Did you _want_ to?”

Sehun laughs breathlessly even as he grinds needily into the pressure, his neck lolling to the side, arms trembling near Joonmyun’s shoulders. 

They can see the lights from here, and they twinkle off the dark strands of Joonmyun’s hair as he tips forward, too, watches him. 

His fair falls across his forehead, and he looks young like this. Soft and secret and his, and Sehun remembers when they were young—younger—when this was idealization, hero worship, apotheosis, when Joonmyun was all Sehun wanted and admired and needed. 

It isn’t that way now. Not anymore. Sehun has grown up. They both have. And he can see the cracks now in the statue he’d erected of Joonmyun as the perfect hyung, can see the shortcomings, the vulnerabilty, the fear, the crippling perfectionism, the flaws where the veneer has worn off, but Sehun admires him still, needs him still, loves him still, is weakened by the force of his _want_ for him still. And he shivers through Joonmyun’s fleeting caress, moaning in encouragement or supplication when Joonmyun’s fingers shift to drag lazily over the dip of Sehun’s bare stomach. 

Joonmyun is best like this. Real and imperfect and bare-faced and flushed pink with arousal, eyes dark and glazed over it. 

When Sehun kisses him, he doesn’t take like gold or stone or fireworks or divinity, but like man, like expensive champagne, like heat, like the vague secret vice of residual cigarette smoke. 

“Those models,” Joonmyun breathes against Sehun’s parted lips, _grazing_ again, hissing just just just the slightest when his own cock presses against Sehun’s thigh. “How many slipped their business cards in your wallet, Sehunnie?”

“Twenty,” Sehun lies, gasping, loving it when Joonmyun’s fingers tighten—just just just shy of too much, painfully, painfully perfect and hot. “Asked them to join us.”

“Call them,” he goads, squeezing again, smiling as Sehun whimpers. “All the pretty models that don’t know how you’re just _gasping_ for me.” He tilts his head back. A challenge or an invitation. Sehun latches his mouth there to taste the sweet, steady rumple of his pulse. “Don’t know—fuck—how you like me best.”

Liked him first, liked him most, has only ever know what it’s like to want him. 

Sehun pushes him back into the mattress, and Joonmyun lets himeslf be pushed, lets himself fall open.   
And he’s splayed open on the bed, flushed cheeks and dark hair whispering over their sinfully soft sheets, the romantic Parisian lights caressing his small, perfect body. 

Want me, he seems to be saying. Want only me me me. Like Sehun doesn’t, hasn’t, won’t—until it breaks him. 

Love you. Love you. Love you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Hyung, hyung, hyung. 

Stumbling down his body, Sehun lifts a leg, drops small, wet, wet kisses up, up, up one thigh, then the other before hauling him forward by the hips. They’re so disconcertingly small in his grip, and Joonmyun’s heels knock against his straining back, fingers whisper over Sehun’s scalp. Thrumming with want for him, Sehun moans into the nip he drops near the base of Joonmyun’s cock. Louder when Joonmyun tangles his hands in Sehun’s hair and tugs. 

Sehun pulls away to mouth at the network of thin, blue veins beneath Joonmyun’s trembling skin, nipping when Joonmyun sighs in encouragement. The pad of his fingers tingle along Sehun’s cheek. 

“Lube,” he coaxes. “Come on,” he says. “Fuck me like I’m one of those models.”

Sehun gropes in their nightstand for the it, one-armed, clumsy, desperate, drunk, drunk, drunk. There’s French on the bottle, and Sehun’s fingernail catches on the clear sticker as he pops it open. Joonmyun watches him from beneath his dark lashes, over his own heaving chest, and Sehun’s hand trembles between Joonmyun’s legs. “Those models,” Joonmyun breathes, the syllable morphing into a hiss as Sehun’s fingers catch and drag. Joonmyun arches into the touch, sharp, hot, and his cock slaps against his own stomach, heavy and hard and red. 

And fuck, Sehun _wants_ him, wants Joonmyun hyung his, his, his. 

Joonmyun doesn’t continue the thought, shivering gorgeously instead when Sehun’s mouth lands on his thigh. 

“Sehun,” he breathes, tugging again, but soothing the sting with a lingering caress on the back of his neck, a dizzying reminder of just _why_ Sehun is so helplessly lost in him. 

“I’d never fuck anyone but you,” he wants to say as he eases Joonmyun open finger by finger, watches Joonmyun grind back into the touch, mindless with his want for Sehun, too. “You’re the only person I want to fuck. Only you, hyung. Only ever you.” 

But Sehun climbs over him instead, and Joonmyun stumbles his hand over Sehun’s cock. And Sehun pushes into that by way of confession, hissing out a breathy _hyung_ as he buries his face in Joonmyun’s warm neck. 

The muscles in Joonmyun’s throat dance beneath Sehun’s restless lips as he moans, too, hisses, too, needs him, too. 

“Gonna fuck me?” 

“Yes.”

“Fuck me good?”

“ _Yes_.”

Hard, he means. Fast, he means. Desperate, he means. Good enough to make me come, he means. 

But there’s an undercurrent of soft, soft affection in the way he cradles Sehun’s cheek, heart-aching tenderness in the careful brush of his fingers over Sehun’s browbone, outwards towards his cheek, jawline. “Prettiest maknae,” he whispers, tilting his hips up. Sehun’s cock catches on Joonmyun’s rim, and he gasps. “My lovely, lovely maknae, show hyung what you got.”

But he doesn’t give Sehun a chance to. Joonmyun pins him to the bed instead, straddles his waist, and Sehun nearly sobs in relief when he slides home. _Home_.

And Sehun is lost in him, consumed by him, burning everywhere their skin, muscles, bodies collide. 

Pleasure and heat and need and admiration and possession and desperation and love, love, love saturate every pore, quiver through every frayed nerve ending. Overcome. Overwhelm. 

Sehun tilts his hips up, thrusts as Joonmyun drops, and oh, the unforgving way he clenches is deliberate and calculated and perfect, Sehun knows, even as his body locks briefly with pleasure. But oh the way he moans, the way he trembles, he knows that’s real and breathy and perfect, too. 

Joonmyun tips his head back with the richest, darkest moan, clutching at Sehun’s shoulders, baring the pale column of his throat. Sehun surges upwards to kiss along his throat, pant into his jawline as Joonmyun moans, rides, fucks himself with utter abandon. 

And Sehun needs it, oh how he needs it.

Showing, showing, showing what he’s got, giving, giving, giving, giving everything he can, Sehun drinks down every soft, aborted little moan—the sweet, sweet need in every reedy little _Sehunnie, baby, baby, baby boy, my, my, my boy_. 

“Gonna make me come,” he groans, and Joonmyun laughs, swivels his hips. His restless fingernails scrape their way across Sehun’s heaving chest, an arresting caress that has pleasure flaring across his skin. 

“Come then,” he urges, tipping his head back, quivering through the next fluid, fluid grind of his hips. He’s a pliant, exquisite offering of bruised lips and flushed skin and dark eyes and labored breathing, and tight, wet, wet warmth. And oh, oh, oh, Sehun needs to claim it, even if he’s unworthy, even if it burns him, even if imperfect Joonmyun is still too perfect to bear. “Come, Sehunnie.”

And Sehun doesn’t stand a chance, shuddering heavily, losing himself, his rhythm entirely. He ruts inelegantly to completion, and Joonmyun bounces on his lap, teeth rattling audibly with the force, body clenching tight and sure and hot, hot, hot 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

The blood roars in his ears, and the pleasure crescendoes and crests, and he comes and comes and comes and comes until he can barely stay upright, can barely barely barely bear it. 

Joonmyun is there, there for him when he sinks back into consciousness, palms cupping around the nape of his neck, touch and voice and eyes and body a whisper-soft, tender, tender anchor. 

And oh, Sehun would never want to fuck—hold—kiss—love anyone else. Would never want to trade anything for this. 

“Hyung,” he finds himself gasping. Or maybe “I love you.” Or maybe “There’s no one else.” Or maybe “Please, please, please,” as he tosses Joonmyyn back into the sheets, stumbles down towards Joonmyun’s pulsing cock, intent if not a little clumsy for more, more, more.

**Author's Note:**

> tonally this is, i d k
> 
> i haven't written sehun's pov since july 2016??? so yeah i d k
> 
> the alternate title for this is *bunny emoji* *chicken emoji* *eiffel tower emoji* *heart emoji* *18+ emoji*
> 
> [look into your eyes, butter-butterflies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Stc2p36rPU)


End file.
